


Do You Know What They Say About Eternity?

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, where it all started
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>well i can tell you<br/>that i did find it<br/>(i even made a first<br/>verse<br/>just for you)<br/>but here's my chorus.<br/>i want you to know<br/>that i don't believe in miracles<br/>i was apart of a prophecy:<br/>i just wonder how you<br/>became infinite</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Know What They Say About Eternity?

**Author's Note:**

> http://8tracks.com/student-prince/i-think-i-heard-the-universe-quiver  
> it fits a little, i suppose. it's generally just for tucker and wash and the things i've written.

Seeing the cobalt armour on Agent Washington is disconcerting, for Tucker – the yellow stripes seemed to make it alien, make it Wash’s own, yet he, at times, imagined to hear Church’s bitter voice. Wanted to turn around and tell him to ‘fuck off’, until he realises starkly who it really is. That Church, his somewhat begrudging (understatement of the age) friend, is inhabiting the Epsilon unit.

Once they leave the snow and head for Valhalla, Tucker has a hard time adjusting. His new teammate _was_ the man out to take Church, at whatever the cost. That extended to killing anybody in his path.

He’s not even in a situation to _ask_ for the reasoning behind any of it, not even in the situation to _ask_ why they’re able to trust him now. Of course Caboose insisted they take him in – he knows what Caboose is thinking and it’s downright fucking _depressing_. It doesn’t mean Tucker can’t question things, it was what he _did._ It was his very self.

So Agent Washington defended them in battle. Except before all that, he had taken Simmons and Doc prisoner (despite the animosity between Red and Blue, and medic alike, it didn’t mean Tucker would like to see them held at _gunpoint_ ), engaged Grif and Sarge in battle, _and_ to top it all off his entire mission was to hunt down Church and send him back to the UNSC. Tucker wasn’t exactly in a position to see Agent Washington as somebody to be cared for or protected.

“Tucker, _Tucker_ , we’re going to do so many fun things now we’re back home! Oh—” is his morning wakeup call from Caboose. The integration of Agent Washington has transitioned from ‘the bad guy’ to ‘Caboose’s surrogate best friend who now is called Church’. It’s unsettling, to say in the least.

Caboose never finishes his sentences before he runs off now, too buoyant with the new Church. It feels wrong, feels blasphemous almost – despite the lack of religious belief in Tucker – to say it. He silently smiles to himself at the irony.

From the Church he knew in Blood Gulch, the one that could stave off a Caboose in the evening, to the one he found again in a floating ball, the Church that came out again in the armour – all of them, these incarnations, they’d been the same _Church_. Intrinsically him, even from Alpha to Epsilon. Tucker wasn’t even there for the ‘death’ of the Alpha. The switch had been natural, for Tucker – even if Church didn’t remember him. But memory’s a funny thing like that.

“Good morning, Tucker,” is the ever courteous reply, the same composed tone of Agent Washington. Hearing it in the morning is too much, too much for him because he’s used to ‘Holy shit, you’re actually fucking awake,’ from Church. He has no time for politeness.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” is all he edges out, because it applies to both Church and Agent Washington: it’s ambiguous. It’s _enough_.

“There’s an MRE for you there,” says the man, already in cobalt and yellow armour, looking ready for patrolling when Tucker is still bleary-eyed. “I’ll be outside.”

“Yeah.” ‘Yeah’ is good. ‘Yeah’ is nothing, ‘yeah’ is ‘I don’t quite trust you yet, all right.’ At least, that’s the way Tucker sees it. It’s the way he sees it with half a night of tossing and turning, because not a few hours earlier he bore witness to somebody living past a sword through the chest _and_ an almost dead Grif. It’s a lot for one guy, even who’d experienced a parasitic pregnancy. That says a _lot._

He chews slowly, the silence something to be admired for once. It’s not a usual thing he enjoys, prefers the mutterings and musings of Church, who had a tendency to repeat things Tex had said to him, or Caboose, or sometimes even Tucker. It was a habit that Tucker laughed at, a half-asleep brain finding the biting replies Church had amusing.

Yet there’s nothing. Quiet. The Valhalla base feels eerily empty to Blood Gulch’s, but it should have been an obvious fact to Tucker. Only Caboose had been here, whilst he was out in the desert and Church was a fucking flying entity; Agent Washington and the Meta had used it, briefly, but as far as he knows there’s a difference between a business and actually living somewhere. Like an office and a home. He wonders if Agent Washington ever had a home.

There’s a pain in his back he can’t place, maybe it’s somewhere the Meta had hit him, but then he reconsiders the bed he’d been stuck with. Military beds were more uncomfortable than sand.

“Private Tucker, shouldn’t you be in your armour by now?” The cold voice, now – all courtesy gone – is Agent Washington’s again, his entrance unheard by Tucker. He realises then he’d been sitting there, for too long, staring at his black hands, and the scar on the inside of his thumb. He regrets ever letting Caboose anywhere near him.

“That’s First Class,” is all Tucker says. He stands up, sizes himself against the fully armoured Agent Washington. Tucker might be relatively short, but the man in armour before him is imposing despite this. It’s his posture, the way he titled his neck slightly like he was in a constant state of probing everything around him, without a second glance.

Except for then, he seems to be in a moment of thought – Tucker is proud to be able to say that.

“Shouldn’t you have been the Blue leader, then?”

So that wasn’t the reply he imagined, briefly, he’d receive. “I guess so. I didn’t really want to. Church had the sniper rifle, anyway. Said he’d make a better leader. Asshole was always sneaky like that.”

“You didn’t really do things the way protocol calls for.” Agent Washington is back to his regular stance, and Tucker decides he should walk out, but he’s going to defend his team.

“Nobody really did, dude. Better get used it,” he says, walking off now. He hopes his back looks good, anyway, imagines the puzzlement on Agent Washington’s face when he sees the traditional scarification of the Sangheili. All ancient shapes, words that were phased out of Modern Sanghelese, but were meant for the prophetic role Tucker had adopted. He’s proud of them, in some small way, and when he runs his hands over his shoulders he remembers Junior.

Saying things had ‘gone back to normal’ would be wrong. That the minute there were two bases, a box canyon, and Caboose behaving like Church was back would make things simple. It doesn’t, really, not to Tucker. There’s no suffocating heat, and the stream of water is too loud. Back in Blood Gulch, where the sound of the wind gusting through could be heard at moments, then be pierced through by the arguing of Simmons and Grif, which reached its way over the canyon like a banshee’s call - Valhalla was annoying, compared to that.

It’s far too peaceful, now. So he puts his armour on without another thought, considers this again for another moment.

“Tucker,” Caboose calls his name, drawing out the ‘r’ in that way Caboose seemed to do now. Tucker chooses then to soak in the new surroundings, the green that seemed far too fresh and healthy for his eyes, the water that ran at a steady pace, the distant Red base. It’s not _quite_ home. Not _quite_ there.

His name is called again. “Tucker, there’s a lady here that looks like you! And she knows Mr. Washingtub!”

Another Freelancer, no doubt; for a fleeting moment he thinks it’s Tex, another version of her wandering around like a ghost. Then he realises, no matter who it was, it meant the very brief rest they had was going to be postponed. If he were honest with himself, then he’d also understand staying put wasn’t what they did anymore. Since he was locked in that temple and escaped it, he never had much time for stagnancy.

He swallows with dread, knowing that death could be around the corner at any moment. He might have begun to enjoy the thrill of being adept, it didn’t mean he liked the possibility of it being the end. Of the end following him like the new day to come.

A sarcastic response is what Tucker should have, but he remains without one even until joining Caboose beside the ledge. A soldier with armour lighter than his – what’s the colour? – standing opposite Agent Washington. With the short time Tucker has known him, he can tell Agent Washington looks somewhat aggressive, from his posture.

Raised voices now come and with his hardened hearing, notices the insistent tone to a decidedly feminine individual; Agent Washington remains low and biting, threatening.

There’s words like ‘the Director’ and ‘Project Freelancer’ thrown around, and he’s sure then she’s an old acquaintance, a Freelancer – he doesn’t take Caboose’s word for truth until he sees himself – and then he hears ‘Epsilon’.

They just really never gave up, those Freelancers, did they?

Destruction and death followed them like a reaper, more than the luck and chance that trailed along the Reds and Blues. It seemed wherever the mysterious Freelancers went, who kept their cards to their chest, they were the balance to the narrow escapes the Blood Gulch familiars had.

“Caboose,” Tucker begins to say, taking advantage of the lapse between the Agents. “I have a really, _really_ bad feeling about this. Like, we could be in as much shit as we were with Wyoming.”

“Oh, don’t worry. She seems friendly.”

“The way she’s talking about that Director guy, I don’t think so.”

“She sounds like Church.”

Tucker doesn’t say anything, returning to listening in, straining his ears to pick up on the conversation. It didn’t sound good.

Before Tucker even has time to react, Agent Washington snaps his neck up to where Tucker and Caboose were now slightly crouched, and it scares the living _shit_ out of Tucker. Then, “Get everything you need together,” is the clipped command from Agent Washington, esteemed new leader of the Blue team.

But Tucker doesn’t listen to the leader, that’s not him. “Who fucking says I have to?”

“We both do,” is what the other Freelancer says, voice curled, dangerous. “Do you need some encouragement?”

“Ooh, baby, I do _well_ with—”

He ducks back down as a pistol is raised at him. “Fucker,” he mutters. He sighs after that, because apparently the new friend of Blue team is somebody prepared to use violence to get her own way. Similar to a previous affiliate, in simple terms. She might have been good friends with Tex.

“She is like Church a lot. I remember when I found him again after we changed bases, he shot at me. But he missed me.”

He knows ‘he missed me’ referred to something different, except Caboose is a little deluded. Tucker nods his head. “Yeah, okay, whatever you think, Caboose.”

His heart is still beating quickly after that, because raised guns were never something Tucker became comfortable with, and it’s not long before Agent Washington finds the pair and starts ordering them around.

However Caboose saw Church in Agent Washington, past the armour, is an enigma to Tucker. Even with the issued orders, he helps out – he’s too sincere, too nice to be Church. He’s stoic, this much Tucker can observe – but he’s not an icicle with a fire underneath like Church. Maybe he’s just a glass pyramid, reflecting light.

But then, he doesn’t really care.

“We’re going to get Church back,” is the explanation he’s given. “Break him out from the Freelancer facility.”

“Church chose to go in,” he replies between complaining and groaning about packing the Warthog full of whatever they’d need to survive on the trip. “So shouldn’t we just leave him? Free will and all that shit?”

“We need him,” Agent Washington replies after a moment. He breathes in deeply, then releases.

Tucker laughs to himself. “Right. Well, I guess he’ll be thrilled somebody wants him.”

“ _I_ don’t want him. I already said: we need him. That’s enough for now.”

“You know, a suicide mission like this, some explanation would be _great_.”

“You don’t need _anything_ except to get him back. He is your friend, after all,” the other Freelancer interrupts, and he notices her helmet and wants to know how her peripheral vision is. “If that Red Sergeant hadn’t have _experimented_ on those Hornets you stole, _we_ would have been leaving by now.”

“All I’m sayin’ is, they were too pretty to pass up! And the UNSC is _inefficient_ with their fuel and I really think I did a good job gettin’ the conversion started!” the accused shouts from their parked Warthog.

“Sarge, I understand,” Simmons says, nodding from where he was packing a first-aid kit.

“No, you _don’t_. You think he’s as stupid as the rest of us,” Grif cuts in, tapping the side of the box lightly. “And you _know_ it.”

“Shut up! I think Warthogs are better to travel in, anyway.”

“Right.”

“So you think you can just bribe Caboose into this? Wow, you guys are really nice people,” Tucker says, immediately regretting it when he realises she’s the type to aim a gun for a simple misdemeanour. He chose to ignore the Red team out of preservation of his sanity.

“We’re not nice, no,” she says, thankfully taking it in stride. “Niceness is for people who want to get killed.”

“Church was nice. That was probably why he died. Not me. I didn’t kill him. I think if Tucker says that he is lying,” Caboose adds, nodding his head vigorously. “Yes.”

“Right,” Agent Washington says, turning his head away from Caboose. “Now hurry up. We need to be leaving as soon as possible.”

“Oh, cry me a fucking river. We do things in our own time.”

“Say it again,” threatens the Freelance whose name hasn’t been given to him yet.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Agent Carolina,” she answers. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Ooh, aggressive and uses violence to get her way. Is your name Tex?”

“Don’t _you dare_ bring her up,” Agent Carolina’s voice dips low, cuts like a knife, and she aims her gun _again_ at Tucker.

He’s not scared, he just doesn’t want to be injured. With that compromise, he silently returns back to whatever the newly crowned leader of Blue team asked him to do. There is one thing Tucker has discovered so far, and that the way Freelancers directed things was _not_ the way he liked. At least Church did it through careful understanding of character – these aliens that weren’t even related to him saw no need for pleasant facetious remarks or back and forth arguments. It was do or die.

At least he could enjoy the Reds’ unhappiness with the whole affair.

“This is fucking bullshit. I stop to nap for one moment, and then I’m dragged out on some other quest!” Grif moans, whines, repeats again until Simmons tells him to ‘shut the fuck up, before _you_ get a gun aimed at us again’.

“I’ll kill you before that other Freelancer even looks at you! Watch your back, _dirtbag_ ,” Sarge says, aiming his shotgun at Grif’s feet. “Or it’ll be the foot this time.”

The bravado in his voice is enough to soften some of Tucker’s fears; at least there’d be some other idiot in front of him in case anything happens. And it’s the constancy of that particular brand of madness that also gives Tucker peace of mind. Sceneries change, wind blew, sun set, and Sarge was delirious.

“To be uh, honest, I don’t really see how we’re going to pull this _off_ , exactly,” Simmons says to Agent Carolina, an uncertain edge to his voice Tucker is well familiar with now. “I mean, it barely worked hidden in the tank!”

“Well,” she begins – Tucker notes then her bearing is different to Agent Washington’s, more ready to pounce – and then stops before saying, “If things go to plan, with me we’ll make it through to where Epsilon is stored.”

“How do you know where he is, though?” The panic picked up in Simmons. “I mean, it was really only _very_ recently Church was found, for all we know—”

She cuts him off, “He is with where all the evidence is stored. Is that enough for you?”

“Y-Yeah,” he manages to stammer out. Tucker knows he’s bright red under his maroon helmet, and with the bright midday sun it glows a strange crimson colour. Tucker’s never noticed it until then.

“Dipshit,” Grif mutters. “Tell _me_ to shut up.”

“That’s because you were complaining. At least _I_ asked something important.”

“Yeah, Simmons, so proud of you. Do you wanna ask Agent Washington if he feels like a Blue yet? Just go that extra mile?”

“Cut it _out_ , you two,” Agent Carolina hastily adds. “If we’re doing this, you _will_ learn to be quiet.”

With a smile then, Tucker knows exactly what the orange and maroon pair are thinking. He would voice it, but he values his life.

“All right, everyone, buckle up,” she calls a few minutes later. “We’ve got a ride ahead of us. Follow my lead.”

He’s stuck in the Warthog with Agent Washington and Caboose in the gunner’s seat, but at least they have enough Warthogs without somebody riding shotgun’s lap. Agent Carolina has her all-terrain vehicle, speeding ahead.

“So how long will this take?” Tucker says from the steering wheel to Agent Washington beside him. “Because I hope there’s some rests along the way. Gotta have my private time.”

“As far as the calculations go, several days. It will take however long it takes.”

“Great. Gonna have _so_ much fun.”

“It’s not _about_ —” The retort is cut off as they go over a rock. It may or may not have been deliberate on Tucker’s part, as the driver. He hears an exasperated sigh from Agent Washington. “It’s not about _fun_ ,” he finishes.

“Yeah, everything we’ve done so far has been _fun_. You should’ve been out in the desert with me in that ancient alien temple! So great. Man, and when Wyoming came after us before that. The rocket that almost blew me up was a fucking _blast._ Look, I even put a pun in it. That’s how much fun it was.”

There’s another exhale from Agent Washington. “I understand – I understand things have been _difficult_. But things don’t suddenly become fun after a certain amount of trials you’ve experienced. Things rarely… get better, when you’re out here. As a space marine.”

“I don’t know, is getting pregnant apart of the job description?” He notices a hint of melancholy in Agent Washington’s voice, and he avoids that. He doesn’t _need_ something serious, now, so he brings up Junior because for the time he was with the kid, things were okay. Okay in some respects, at least.

“You were pregnant?” Agent Washington is _quizzical_. Shocking him has immediately morphed into Tucker’s favourite thing to do now. He grins as they hit a bumpy track of rocks, the feeling something he almost laughs at. It’s been a while since he’s driven a proper UNSC car, making do with the Sangheili’s for a while before it.

“Yeah, had a little kid named Junior,” he remembers to respond, too caught up in other thoughts. “He’s like, my Sangheili kid. It was all a part of a Quest or something I got dragged on by another alien.” Tucker realises he’s being _civil_ , which is a concept he had to learn for interacting with a whole other species.

“Is that why you have those tattoos?” Agent Washington sounds careful, like he knows there are certain lines people don’t cross. Tucker can at least respect that.

“I was ‘The Great Destroyer’ because I took an energy sword. Don’t think about taking it. Only works for me. But anyway, yeah, I was like – you know, some ultra special hero or something because I had the sword then I had the kid.”

The Freelancer is silent, and Tucker chuckles quietly to himself. He remembers Church’s reaction to the pregnancy: “He’s not fucking pregnant!” The memory makes him laugh again.

“How did you birth it?”

More rocky terrain, and Tucker focuses on _not_ crashing. He values himself, too. Then he eventually says, back on grass, driving past cliffs made of red dirt and granite, “Caesarean. It uh – fucked up my body for a while.”

“A male reproductive system isn’t designed for birth. I can imagine your insides were crushed.”

“Had the tiniest appetite for weeks, dude. All I got was a cool scar. Kinda cute kid, though. Had the highest voice you’d ever hear.”

He notes then, they’ve barely begun the journey and he’s already pouring his soul out. He was terrible with long distances.

Agent Washington asks no more after that, either uncomfortable with the idea of Tucker being pregnant – the same kind of denial he’d experienced before, it’s nothing new – or wanting to avoid intrusion.

But Tucker’s no good with silences, too used to it from being alone for so many weeks in the sand and desert and winds that sounded like death. “The tattooing was painful. It’s designed for Sangheili skin, which if you haven’t noticed underneath that armour, is basically a lizard’s. Hurt like a motherfucker.”

He receives no comment, so goes on, “The ink they filled it in with glows in the dark.” There ought to at least be some kind of response to that.

“A bit gimmicky.”

“It’s fucking cool. What do Freelancers call gimmicky? Anything that isn’t bulletproof?”

He deliberately swerves around a rock far too sloppily. “Watch it,” the Freelancer hisses, and Tucker notices a metaphorical wall grow around him. They don’t talk for hours in the ride after that, but for Caboose making the odd comment about the terrain.

After all, he may be in blue armour, it didn’t mean the Freelancer was _Blue_.

“When are we gonna stop?” Tucker says after at least hour five. “This shit takes concentration.”

“When Carolina calls for it.”

Tucker groans and stretches as much as he can while watching where the Warthog went; it was volatile enough with Caboose in the gunner’s position. He really regrets that.

Time seems to flow by smoothly after that, the sun slowly beginning to set in the west; Tucker notes the way the light seemed to flare like a mix of watercolours, gold and pink and orange, and he thinks about this until it’s all wiped away and replaced with a black night. The stars shine so brightly out where they are driving, and he realises then he’s not on Earth. He’s out in space, light years away from his old home, and even though he hardly recognises the lights above him, he feels at peace. It seems intrinsic, to a human, to find the clear air comforting.

“There was a planet,” Agent Washington says, at what must be a long time past Tucker musing to himself, “where the sky was like oil. It kind of glimmered, in a weird way. Sort of moved… I guess, and sometimes I wished I could touch it. But you know, I had a job to do.”

It’s personal, what he says, too close for the short time they’ve begun to even talk; Tucker stood above the bleeding body of him, seeing a weak side of the Freelancer before he had a moment to even see the ruthless facet of him in person. Here he was, divulging thoughts like the blood he bled was something that tied the pair together. Tucker doesn’t know what to say, this time, so opts for a nod of the head, a ‘oh, that sounds pretty cool,’ and then a yawn.

He really wishes for sleep, then – staying up late was only enjoyable if done with a drink in one hand and a waist in the other. Here he was, being towed around by a Freelancer and glimpsing the moon at intervals. There’s a certain feeling telling him this will become habit soon enough.

“Are we stopping anytime soon?” He doesn’t ask, this time, just to annoy Agent Washington. It’s a genuine question, remembering all of the safety awareness advertisements about how driving and lack of sleep don’t go well together. He tries to be responsible, as he _is_ a parent, after all.

“Knowing Carolina, no.” The tone is somewhat apologising, but also insistent in a small way.

“How do you know each other, anyway? Did you get it on or something?”

”Don’t _ever_ imply that – there was somebody else anyway – but no, we were in the Project together. She was a leader.”

“I remember once I heard Tex and Church talk about Carolina and York, I guess that’s who you’re—”

“Yes,” Agent Washington says before Tucker could finish. “If you mention his name, be prepared for whatever Carolina may do.”

“Bit freaky.”

“You haven’t been through what she has.”

“Bet she hasn’t been pregnant.”

Agent Washington sounds tired then, too, when he says, “No, she hasn’t.”

“I’m pretty sure I never used my maternity leave. Paternity leave? How does the UNSC or whatever classify a male birth bearer?”

He clears his throat. “I wouldn’t know.”

After that there’s a lapse again, driving onwards in the direction of the facility the other Reds and Blues had supposedly already once broken into. Sometimes, Tucker _seriously_ wonders where all their luck came from, and how they expected it to work a second time.

The sun rising is a little off-putting. He’s not usually around for both the setting and the rise, but it seems like Agent Washington is far used to it. Tucker rolls his shoulders again, seeming to be running on some power he had reserved, and he complains at the odd interim. It’s who he is.

The landscape shifts from grassy to dirt, dirt, dirt _everywhere,_ and Tucker is almost sick for Blood Gulch again, until he considers why he would _miss_ it. It was – well, if he were honest, if he told the truth, it was the people that made it something memorable. In more ways than one.

“I think we will be stopping,” Agent Washington says, the earlier tone now deepened: he seems to want something. “We’ve been driving long enough.”

“Long enough? Dude, I reckon I could go a little longer. How about we just don’t stop at all? Isn’t that what you Freelancers would do?”

He’s just enjoying goading Agent Washington. “No. We will rest – we’ve made further distance than I thought we would.”

“Your expectations must be pretty low.”

“They are.”

Tucker takes that with a stride, pulling over beside a lonesome tree. It looks dead, withered and old, but it provides a little shade. It’s enough for a cool day.

Agent Carolina doesn’t complain, and he’s _almost_ surprised at that. But he takes it with relief and finds one of the MRE’s they packed, anticipating a short stop only. He went on a trip once with Tex, and even though she wasn’t quite up to the ferocity of Agent Carolina, he _knows_ how Freelancers work.

“We are finding Church again. We can do so many things, like hide and don’t see,” Caboose says to the silence. Tucker doesn’t reply, thinking about how _Agent Washington_ became Church briefly to Caboose; he’s at least glad now things will go back to the proper way. Church is Church, angry at everything but with a good dose of doubt.

Agent Washington disappears, taking his own meal over to a rock in the far distance. He realises then he hasn’t seen him out of the SPARTAN suit, even managing to hide himself when changing from his old armour to new.

The other Freelancer appeared to have done the same. Tucker almost feels jealous; Freelancers with their history, their shared knowledge of what _caused_ all of this. The Reds and Blues in a box canyon, the coming of Wyoming, O’Malley – _all_ of it.

He thinks, chewing thoughtfully (actually _tasting_ the food was out of mind), what his life would have been like without Project Freelancer. Probably just a grunt, on the front lines. No aqua-turqoise-sea foam-whatever colour depending what chart you looked at armour, he’d be green and grey and probably dead long ago. A nameless death: _killed in action_. At least with what he has now, he could blame something for his demise like a deadly mercenary or somebody with a vengeance against his prophetic role in Sangheili religion.

Before he knows it there’s two imposing figures commanding him to ‘get up,’ and really, if Church were here, he’d badmouth him and tell him to ‘fuck off,’ because that sort of leadership-relationship was like _breathing_. Now he has to tread on eggshells and pretend like he’s a real soldier. He’s not. The hardest part is _knowing_ that and accepting it, and eventually learning to be proud of it. Everything he’s done so far as has been out there, has been wild and extravagant and life-threatening in a strange, brutal way.

He supposes Freelancers have no time for tales of the extraordinary.

There’s that jarring distinction though: _Red and Blue, Freelancers._ They didn’t quite belong anywhere, despite the shared armour. Agent Carolina and Agent Washington _could_ be Blues, they _could_ find a place amongst either team, really, but their perspectives and ways of doing things didn’t mesh. They were all opposing, all of the Reds and Blues, but with these differences they found something familiar. There wasn’t anything important about them, they didn’t drastically change the universe – with good time the Meta would have been taken down, and maybe Wyoming would have found somebody else to terrorise.

They just existed. That’s all they were, they survived what they did because there was no other option.

“You know,” Grif starts to say to Tucker, before hopping into his own driver’s seat, “I never knew we’d find somebody worse than Tex. Apparently, the world is _really_ fucking cruel sometimes.”

He’s lucky Agent Carolina isn’t close enough to hear him. “Yeah, dude? Mention Tex around her. Do it. I had a _gun_ pointed at me.”

Grif snorts, and then there’s an acidic tone to his words, “One day, maybe I won’t get bossed around. Find somewhere back in Honolulu.”

“You’re from Honolulu?”

“You seriously didn’t know that.”

“I don’t know,” Tucker replies, becoming a _little_ defensive, and shrugs his shoulders. “Church didn’t know my name until like, _forever._ I guess we just assume things.”

“Lavernius, right? Even _I_ fucking knew that a long time ago.” Grif laughs, the one that always had a calming effect on Tucker. It seemed to echo forever, in some ways – he can distinctly recall it, wherever he went.

“Dexter?”

“Yeah, Tucker. Good job. Now tell me Simmons’ name.”

“Dick.”

“And you can guess how many jokes spawned off _that_ ,” Grif muses, chuckling to himself again.

“Yeah, and they’re fucking old as shit!” Simmons yells from the gunner’s seat, already prepared and ready to embark on the next stretch of their journey.

“What are you two talking about?” Agent Washington comes up behind them. “We’re not quite leaving yet. Carolina’s just working on some of the blueprints of the facility. It’ll help us when we try to get in. Might save your life.”

“We wouldn’t be risking our lives if she hadn’t have come along,” Tucker says quickly, back arching. He’s never been all that used to a trained killer in his vicinity.

“Good point.” Agent Washington seems to go still, until he says, “So, Lavernius?”

“Yeah, got a problem?”

“It’s a nice name.”

“I guess,” Tucker says, stiltedly. “Gotta admit, Simmons has the best first name.”

“Too true,” Grif agrees, nodding his head. He leans against the side of the Warthog, nonchalant even in the presence of somebody he _apparently_ , as the regaling went, managed to almost run over. “So, Wash, what made the change of heart?”

Grif’s on the same line of thought as Tucker, as it goes. Agent Washington says, after a sigh that sounds too old for whatever age he was, “You weren’t exactly in the circumstances I was.”

“Oh yeah? Fill me in. Because I’ve got Simmons’ left arm, and I can tell you, there’s _nothing_ cool about being part Hawaiian and part nerd.” Tucker takes note then, assured in a small way, Grif shared that vindictive grudge against the Freelancers; they say they’ve been through so much, and yet they haven’t even tasted what the Reds and Blues have been through. From Caboose losing Church – well, Tucker doesn’t exactly sympathise on an appropriate level with him, but still – to all of the mishaps like Caboose _killing_ Church, Lopez teaming up with Sheila against them, everything Project Freelancer inflicted on them. It’s a lot. It’s a lot to live with. Tucker has coped through some precarious means of half delirium, adopted from Sarge, and a general easy-going with life.

“It’s not that simple. You won’t understand easily.”

Tucker sharply laughs, channelling Church in that way he _had_ to. “What a fucking puzzle. The Freelancers keep to themselves.”

“We do, Tucker. We have to,” is not what he expects to hear from Agent Washington. It’s becoming a common theme between the two, in territory neither are relaxed with.

“Well, I can tell you, I’d do the same,” Grif says. “Go out on my own. Sleep all day.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Simmons corrects. “You need somebody to feed you Oreo’s when you’re half asleep, lazyass.”

Grif turns around, almost _shouts_ , “Simmons! You weren’t supposed to tell anyone!”

“Never said not to.”

“You _know_ not to!”

“Are they normally like this?” Agent Washington says quietly to Tucker, lowering his head in a secret way.

“Since the first time I spied on them. Pretty sure they’re married.”

“Ah,” he replies, leaving the conversation stopped, but then he says, “That long?”

“They’d be dead if they’re separated. I don’t know, they’re fucking weird,” Tucker says and shakes his head, the two other Red soldiers out to the world with their arguing. Another constancy: the never ending tale of Grif and Simmons.

There seems to be a – what, is that, _guilt_ – in the way Agent Washington’s body language changes, and he takes on step away and Tucker doesn’t understand, until he remembers the Freelancer had taken Simmons captive.

“They were separated anyway then, dude,” Tucker tries to comfort, in some small way. He doesn’t like seeing people overcome by _feelings_. God forbid. “You just kinda, uh, gave Grif some incentive to get back.”

“That’s one way you could see it.”

Tucker shrugs his shoulders, an action he saves for where Agent Washington is concerned. With the way the sun is now sitting up higher, Tucker wonders when they’ll have a chance for sleep. He stretches properly, cracks his shoulders.

“Do you think she’ll let us rest?” Tucker asks, walking beside Agent Washington, aimlessly. He kicks at the rocks, drags his feet through the dirt just to _see_ it whip around his calves.

“I would say if you had a nap now,” Agent Washington begins, then he stops and lowers his voice, “I’ll make sure you aren’t _interrupted_.”

“Holy shit, are you being nice? I have to put this in my diary.”

“Tucker.” He turns admonishing, but there’s a hint of teasing under there.

Tucker smiles, and sits against the _other_ lonesome tree he missed. It’s not something to write home about, but he’s had worse. It’s a fitful sleep, a dream – it’s a dream where he’s floating in space. Watching the turn of the universe, the burst and combustion of stars and the steady travel of ships. He is in awe at the size of it.

When he wakes, Agent Washington speaks to him quietly, “Tucker, we have to leave now.”

“Yeah, yeah, Agent Carolina and all that,” Tucker mutters, reaches up to rub his eyes before he knows the visor is in the way. He grumbles at that, too, and his odd dream. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Now,” the Freelancer repeats. This isn’t Tucker’s idea of a morning call. But then again, Blue or not, every idiot that woke him up was an intruder.

He stands up slowly, checking his HUD for the time – he’s only slept a few hours, it seems – and the sun is again at the top of the sky, shining on and on. That was its purpose, anyway, but Tucker sometimes likes to be annoyed at things that can’t be changed.

“I’ll drive,” Agent Washington offers, extending his left hand and Tucker takes it. “It’s only fair.”

“Have you actually rested yourself?”

“Yes,” he replies, and Tucker knows he’s lying. Though it means he won’t have to drive, and Tucker will take what he gets; he’s not like Grif, but he’s not _stupid_.

And he doesn’t even drive badly, more like he’s focused and _intent_ on something – which is Agent Washington is a nutshell, as far as the aqua soldier knows. He’s not one for talking whilst driving, either, and they remain as they are. Caboose doesn’t even talk but for the odd comment about how Church had to instil rules about the toaster back at Blue Base, or how he’s _sure_ Church will have missed him.

When he’s spoken about in that light, Church sounds like a friendly person.

The rest of the drive, Tucker spends doing what he does best: watching everything blur by before he realises where they are. The red dirt never changes and they drive over what seems like the same stretch again and again, and he absently wants to know if he’s in a dream _again_ , but when he turns his head and sees the blue and yellow armour he’s sure it’s not.

“Are we there yet?” Caboose pipes up minutes later. “ _Are we there yet_?”

Tucker sighs at the same time as Agent Washington, and he _would_ have grinned if it weren’t for his general ‘Totally Done With Caboose’ attitude that permeated his life.

“Carolina says we don’t have long,” Agent Washington says, nodding his heads like he has to assure himself. “Maybe a day at most.”

“Good? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It doesn’t.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“No, it isn’t really, dude, but it doesn’t mean I can’t fucking disagree,” Tucker bites, not missing the civility they had earlier. Cussing at people was natural to him.

“I’m glad that’s clear.”

“Whatever.”

Tucker deliberately makes a pact to himself to not look in Agent Washington’s direction. It’s childish but he doesn’t care.

“We won’t be stopping again.”

He breaks his agreement and snaps his neck to look at the Agent. “You fuckin’ serious? A _day_ without a break? How are you not falling asleep?”

“We’ll swap at nightfall.” He’s cool and composed and Tucker has never hated it more.

“And I suppose _you’ll_ be sleeping in the passenger’s seat?”

“Yes.”

He desperately _wants_ to say, ‘You’re a stupid fucking Freelancer, you can’t go around sleeping in a state like this,’ although it comes off as somewhat _caring_. That’s totally not Tucker’s style.

Time goes on and it’s all boring, more boring than the long hike on the Quest he was dragged on long ago, and more boring than having to birth Junior. That was _painful_ , too, but this tedium is grating at his nerves.

The sun is setting again and Agent Washington is silent, pulling over and waiting for Tucker to swap; there’s something about his movement that’s graceful, making the bulk of his armour lithe. It’s weird. It’s weird after seeing awkward soldiers in red and blue. Tucker immediately wants to follow Agent Washington’s footsteps, know the way he moves his legs and arms and _everything_.

It’s fucking weird.

“Tucker? Are you going?” is the question of Agent Washington, and Tucker notices then he was caught up in his thoughts. He hits whatever the pedal is for acceleration – he really doesn’t know, he guesses each time – and they’re off again. Off to save Church who probably won’t even be _grateful_.

The night seems to be the same as the previous. Tucker can’t appreciate it, truly, put his head and back and look up _properly,_ but at least he knows the stars are there. It’s a small solace, same as the light snore of Agent Washington. He would never have guessed he _snored_.

It’s nearing midnight after that, constant driving, and that’s when on the horizon Tucker sees lights. Lights in the distance, yellows and blues that he recognises as the ones they need. Where Church should be.

It’s the most relieved Tucker has been in a few hours. It was just a matter of getting _in_ and then _out._ They’d – they’d find a way. They usually do, in some inexplicable manner. He’s still in awe at how they’re all breathing. Well, except for Donut.

Then he remembers they left Doc behind in Valhalla. Although it’s not like the medic would be useful now.

“Hey,” Tucker tries to wake the Agent up, raising his voice steadily with: “Dude, Agent Washington! Wake the fuck up.”

A roused Washington immediately snaps his head up, looking directly at Tucker. “That soon?”

“We did kinda okay.”

“Yes,” he says, clipped, nods his head. Tucker is surprised at how easily he woke up and was alert. “There will be a certain amount of security, that’s for sure, but apparently they seem to think a break in would only happen once. Too bad for them.” Agent Washington makes a small noise of amusement, then, “They chronically underestimate many things.”

“Yeah.” There’s that noncommittal word. It’s the best Tucker has. “So uh, we’re just storming the facility, right? Like, guns blazing?”

“Agent Carolina and I will be taking an inner route, but we’ll meet up at these coordinates,” Agent Washington replies, then adds, “Uploading them to you and the Reds.”

“We’re not good with coordinates.”

“Learn to be.”

“That sounds so easy, dude,” Tucker edges out, swerving a particularly jagged rock. “Tell me, is that how you learnt as a Freelancer?”

“Yes. In the beginning.”

“Whatever,” Tucker mutters, noting it’s the second time now he’s brushed off the Freelancer like that. He sounds like a teenager.

“This is serious.”

“Yeah.”

He’s really good at conversations, he _swears._

They arrive at what seems to be hours later – the hours morph into themselves, hunch over into their own minutes and then the minutes become the same to Tucker, and time seems to be distorting.

“You listen to whatever Carolina or I tell you to do, understand?” Agent Washington says, his voice commanding and sounding like a true leader. None of the carelessness of Church. “If I say duck, you duck. If I say shoot, you shoot.”

“So what? You’ll tell me to shoot my foot?”

“No. You trust me.”

“I don’t think I’m very close to doing that, dude.”

Agent Washington is quiet, then, and Tucker huffs when he realises he’s probably _guilty_ again.

“Washington, look, just uh, okay. Fine. I’ll do what you say.”

“Good.” He lifts his head up and looks at Tucker. “We’ll have Church back soon enough.”

“No, you’re _not_ doing that to me,” Tucker says, and he makes sure to sound offended. “’Boohoo, you won’t need me ‘cause Church’ll be back’. No, I don’t do that. You’re as much – ah, fuck it. We’re not just gonna kick you out ‘cause the dickbag is back. Got that?”

“He was your leader – he still is. I’m in his armour. I’m more of a ghost than him.”

“You’re alive. You’re not a ghost, as far as I know. Just get over it, would you? Before I start getting emotional.”

“You were pretty emotional then.”

Tucker ignores that last sentiment and mutters to himself about sneaky Freelancers.

He’s proud of his driving skills by then. When they arrive and park, hidden behind an administrative building Agent Carolina saw fit for them, he stops exactly on the spot. He’s good like that.

She motions for the Reds and Blues to follow her, and – as best they can, given the situation – sneak around the covered landing leading to the main base. They have enough cover from the darkness that still drooped over the Freelancer facility, the sun not yet up. He has a feeling the hours will continue to be senseless.

They _would_ have been all right from there, if just before Agent Washington had cracked the holographic lock, the warthogs weren’t spotted. Promptly blown up, even the ATV Carolina had hidden so expertly.

He hears her sigh, annoyed, the kind of soul-wracking exhalation that makes Tucker think she’s had a lot of sighs to her name. “Simmons, Tucker, you two are on vehicle reconnaissance. There’s a vehicle hangar out west from where we are now. Go.”

“Nuh uh,” Grif interjects, shaking his head from beside the maroon soldier. “I’m going with them. Simmons is practically useless by himself.”

“Hey! That’s not true, Grif!”

“I volunteer to accompany the idiot.”

“Fine. _Go_ , get it _done_ ,” she says, anticipating further protestations from Sarge. She’s learning their tells quickly.

“Tucker,” Agent Washington begins to say, pauses then, “When I say be safe, I mean it.”

“Yeah.”

Grif wheezes and complains the whole run, but is helpful for finding places to hide in between seeing soldiers they wanted to avoid – it’s surprising, for Tucker, to see him actually do something useful other than steer a vehicle or drive a Pelican with only reading an instruction manual.

“All right – he’ll pass by,” Grif says, arm across Tucker and Simmons, counting down to five, “Move!” he hisses.

The final stretch is easy enough – Tucker’s motivation is Agent Carolina’s reaction to a failed objective, or Church coming back and laughing at him for not even managing to get a car. ‘Looks like you can’t pick up chicks, Tucker’, he might say.

“Why is there a train track?” Simmons asks, stopping along where the aforementioned lines ran. “There shouldn’t be a train track. Most Freelancer facilities phased them out years ago!”

“Hurry the fuck up, Simmons,” Grif grits out. “Before _I_ have to give _you_ body parts.”

“Oh, shut it,” Simmons mutters.

“Private Tucker,” Agent Carolina comes in over the radio, and Tucker ducks behind a rather large crate.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he says, lowly, and he can hear gunfire in the background.

“Hold on getting the vehicles here. We’ve still a long way to go. Keep the hangar covered.”

“Uh, okay. That doesn’t sound easy.”

Agent Washington enters the feed, adding, “Tucker, generally this whole mission is difficult. I think it’s a little late to complain now.”

“I never got a fucking choice in the first place!”

“You did,” Agent Carolina coyly adds. “It was come with me, or I shoot you. That’s fair.”

“ _No_ , it’s not,” Tucker insists on, ignoring the fight Simmons and Grif were now in. Seems like they drew attention then, the alarms now going off. “Hey uh, you two might wanna find a way to turn off any security systems.”

“We would, but it’s difficult to, Tucker,” Agent Washington adds, and he imagines he’s taken cover the same way Tucker has. “Only operatives trained in that particular field know how to. Even then, they need the assistance of an artificial intelligence.”

“Enough,” Agent Carolina harshly interrupts.

“Yeah, okay,” Tucker mutters, gearing up to join the Reds with him. “Out or whatever.”

Simmons and Grif have themselves in ‘bit of a pickle’ as Donut would have described it, hiding behind a metal half-wall that Tucker has to shake his head at. He pulls in from the left, _rolls,_ ‘cause he’s a smooth motherfucker like that, takes two soldiers out – one in the knee, the other in the shoulder – and pulls out his energy sword with a _swish_ and stabs the third.

He’s kinda badass.

Grif jumps up and says much the same, then adds, “Still a dumb Blue.”

“You spend too much time around Sarge,” Tucker cuts back evenly, storing away his sword for use later. He has his rifle out in the event of a sudden soldier appearing out of range. Like he needs to listen to Agent Washington on how to fight.

“All right, come on. Carolina says we don’t need to get over there yet.” Tucker looks to Simmons. “She’ll radio us, probably, when she wants us.”

“So we just hang out here?” The orange soldiers shakes the door that lead into where _supposedly_ there were a few spare Warthogs waiting for them. “How about: how do we get in?”

“Hold on,” Simmons intervenes. He pushes past Grif and inspects the lock closely. “I think Carolina sent me a password… or maybe a way to hack it.” He plays with his helmet for a few moments, and Tucker covers their backs because apparently that thought passes through Grif’s mind without a glance.

“Yeah! Okay, she did, thank fuck,” Simmons says to himself, Grif shaking his head at the light on Simmons’ helmet he’d turned on. “We’re in!” He makes a sound of triumph.

The room is _huge_. Tucker expected as much from the outside, but on the inside it seems imposing, the ceiling high and tall. All the vehicles are lined up neatly, and he can tell Simmons is excited about that fact. Tucker doesn’t really appreciate it, but at least there’s enough protection in the event of soldiers breaking through.

The door locks behind them, thanks to their resident security ‘expert’, and Grif says, “So uh, what next?”

“Well, we defend it. Simple, dude. Bad guys come in, we shoot them. Can you use your gun?” Tucker adds.

“Mostly.”

Simmons grunts.

“Okay,” Tucker starts. “Then uh, let’s like split up or something. I’ll take the middle, and you two can take the opposite sides.”

“Who do you think you are, leader of the Red team?”

“No, but I rank higher than you.”

“Pfft,” Grif mutters, heading over left as Simmons went right. “You’ve spent too long around that other Freelancer.”

“Yeah, totally, I’ve had a fucking riot with him,” Tucker says with a raised voice, “It’s been a fucking joyride.”

“No need to get so _antsy,_ Tucker,” Grif says, turning around and walking backward.

Tucker would say something if he didn’t notice the door only just locked beginning to _unlock_. He opts after this to comment on it.

“Uh, okay,” Simmons responds, voice going high and cracked without his choice. There’s no way he would want to sound like a pubescent adolescent.

They hold their own quite well – with Tucker directing Grif and Simmons, knowing their strengths and weaknesses inside out and Tucker is maybe a _little_ badass, he wishes Agent Washington was here to see that – and eventually Simmons gets the bright idea of hopping on a machine gun.

“Take that, fucker!” he yells over the repetitive noise of the Warthog’s weapon, obviously in his natural place.

Tucker can’t hear anything Grif says without yelling then, but over the time they have before Agent Carolina contacts them, Tucker and Grif have found they work all right as a team.

“We gotta leave now,” he yells to Grif and Simmons. “They’re just getting out! They’ve got Church!”

“Serious? Holy shit, I didn’t even fucking think we’d be _alive_ by now!” Grif yells back, leaving his vantage position to join Simmons. Of course he would. “Get in a Warthog with Tucker, Simmons!”

“Okay! I brought some music to play, for you know, proper effect!”

“Oh, fuck,” Tucker swears to himself. He leaps into the one Simmons has claimed, sword at the ready because _swish-swish-stab-stab_ never did him wrong.

It’s easy in theory, getting back to where the others were.

“All I’m saying is, it’s the _law_ to stop at train tracks when there’s a train coming through!” Simmons justifies himself.

“We’re under fire. I’m shooting off soldiers and you’re fucking stopped for a _train_.”

“Keep shooting, then!”

“Keep driving, then, asshole! And where the fuck did you get this music, anyway?”

“It’s orchestral! Get the fuck off my back!”

“Grif is right. You’re going to die a virgin.”

Simmons finally goes quiet and accelerates again, over the train tracks. They arrive to find Grif already talking to Sarge, obviously something to do with his insubordination of some kind. Tucker’s embarrassed to be in the same _vehicle_ as Simmons – with the way he pulls in, too far forward, reverses, and still isn’t even lined up.

Tucker really hopes, when he dies, he finds out all the times they nearly died. All the times luck seemed to swoop in and save them, because it would be an _awfully_ huge number, without a doubt. He’s still amazed, still amazed they held off soldiers for enough hours to wait for the sun to come up, for the sun to beat down _again_ (he hopes he can see another rise and set), to find Church. And have enough time, in the midst of it, for Simmons to be Simmons. 

It really was astonishing. So he sighs to himself, lets out a long breath: it’s a culmination of all _this._ He can’t put it into words that rhyme or poetry that makes sense.

Grif and Simmons argue back and forth, until Tucker chooses to chip in: “I’m riding with you next time. He actually stopped at the train tracks.”

“That’s the law!” the earlier tone returns to Simmons’ voice.

“We were under fire!”

“That’s still the law,” Simmons insists.

After Sarge and Grif and Simmons talk about Red things that made Tucker _really_ proud to be a Blue sometimes – even though, well, _Caboose_ , and Church – they eventually head off after a definition of ‘sync’ is given to them.

Church is still Church. Nothing has changed. He almost wishes it had – but then again, he prefers Church to be the one scorned at life. Tucker could coast by. They fit together like that.

The part that’s somewhat disappointing, though, is that Agent Washington reverts to a cold Freelancer, not really in the way for small talk or Sangheili or listening to stories of childbirth. It’s odd, when for a tiny moment Tucker saw him as fitting in as a good Blue leader. Not an asshole, at least, maybe just a dick that was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s too bad, really.

But he’s not somebody to mull over things like this. Shit happens, and all that – that tagline he could live with.

Maybe he could say it’s disheartening. That a treaty, or truce they had over a few days had all but vanished. Maybe Tucker’s worried about things that don’t matter. But then, he was alive and doing things he never dreamt of, spent his time in a box canyon and kept on going because there must be something in between the monotony, something _different_ or _important_ or something he could label _properly,_ something he could grasp and say ‘Yeah, I keep on going. Just for you.’

Though he’s not supposed to have that, out in dirt and dust and travel; he’s supposed to fuel himself on nobility and honour and doing what’s right. Tucker’s not the sort for that, though, fighting so far only in the name of those he cared for.

And it’s true, he did care for Church. They were _friends_. Friends look out for each other, that kind of touchy-feely bullshit.

When Tucker thinks Agent Washington has built up a temple around him, though, he switches back in the night, after a day of driving around or being dragged by Agent Carolina place to place.

Sometimes in the evenings, when they’d finally stop for a rest between finding the Director and arguing with Agent Carolina, Agent Washington will sit beside Tucker. It’s usually behind the Warthog, on the ground, or beneath a tree. Quietly they will be still, no words spoken. It’s the first time he sees Wash without a helmet. And the first time he starts calling him ‘Wash’, inwardly. That distinction to him is natural, fluid: he comes to the meaning much, much later.

One night, though, Wash does talk. He says, “I’ve known Carolina a while. You just – have to learn to understand she’s been through a lot. As have I, for that matter. But nonetheless, give her a break.”

Tucker turns to him, and inspects the pale face with shadows, the short blond hair, freckles that seemed to stand out even in the darkness of moonlight. His face looks tired – and Tucker knows he is, from the bad sleeping habits he had observed since the first trip with him – yet still young. Tucker rubs his eyes consciously, feeling for the same sleeplessness evident under his eyes.

He sits and listens to Wash talk for a while, saying a few nameless things about himself. Nothing important. So he says a few unimportant things back, like where he used to live on Earth, or how Captain Flowers was. Apparently he was Agent Florida in Project Freelancer. By this point, Tucker isn’t even _surprised._

“He was very… what’s the word for it, companionable,” Wash says another time. “Florida had optimism not many of us had.”

“Yeah, he liked hugs.” Tucker runs a bare hand through the dirt. He savours the feeling.

“Tell me about it. He had a habit of hugging Wyoming after getting back from a mission. That usually meant five more knock knock jokes after.”

Tucker laughs, then asks, “So you Freelancers weren’t as deadly as you make out?”

Wash raises his eyes to meet Tucker. “Outside of the field. North was a bit paternal – North Dakota, that is. Where he was caring, his twin was a bit selfish.”

“That’s South, right?” Tucker nods his head with the question. “Caboose apparently shot her.”

“Yes,” Wash says. “He did.”

“Is that like, out of bounds?”

Wash half-smiles. “She betrayed me. Shot me in the back, literally. So yes, it’s not enjoyable to remember.” Tucker thinks he’s not going to continue, until, “But we were driven in all sorts of directions. Nobody trusted each other in the end. I can’t really fault her completely, now. It still doesn’t make what she did right.”

They lapse into silence, and Tucker falls asleep before he knows it. When he wakes up, Agent Washington is above him, in armour, the nice chat they had forgotten. So that’s normal for them, after that.

He questions these sudden changes, and asks another evening, “Dude, what’s the deal?”

“Deal with what?”

“Deal with changing between ‘stoic Freelancer’ and ‘personable Wash’. It’s a rollercoaster, dude.”

Wash goes quiet, very still, and Tucker regrets saying it. He’d rather have the evenings than none at all.

“When you care too much,” Wash says slowly, playing with his fingernails. “It matters when they get hurt.”

“Oh, here we are again with the emotional bullshit. Can’t you just, I don’t know, make friends? Making friends is normal, you know. It’s what _normal people do_.”

“The last friends I had died.”

“I’m still here.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, dark brown eyes of Tucker into Wash’s grey. Even in the dark he knows that exact colour.

“Well, then, do me a favour and don’t die. Maybe break the streak.”

Tucker shrugs his shoulders noncommittally. “Yeah.”

He falls asleep with a warm brush to his shoulder. Something changed, then – something changed in Wash’s whole demeanour.

And he shows this in a big way.

“Wash, _what_ are you doing?” Carolina questions in the holographic room. Wash holds a gun to her head, objecting to Carolina pointing one at Tucker. He realises that this is the first intervention of Wash’s, that there _was_ something important right there. Right in front of him.

“Protecting my friends. Lower the weapon.”

So he did get the message across. Wash actually _listened_. It was something to go in the history books.

He walks out of the room – walks out and then they’re all together, the Reds and Blues beside each other and Church and Carolina leave. It’s just them.

But he did have a promise to keep to Wash, anyway. He was going to try and avoid death – self-preservation and all that, but he’s also a person to trust on the odd occasion.

And they still go after Church and Carolina. Because he was Church’s friend, too, and he might be an AI, might be a ghost, or maybe based off another human – but he had to protect him, too.

\--

“So we’ve crash-landed,” Tucker says, collapsed on a salvaged couch. “Fucking great.”

“Tucker,” Wash says, only half-listening by then, in the middle of fastening a door to Caboose’s quarters. “We’ll make do.”

“We’ll make do,” Tucker mutters under his breath, wiping his forehead. Louder, “Is that what you say when you can only do _two hundred_ squats?”

“Yes.”

He groans again, crosses his ankles. Wherever they were had a stinking humidity at midday, unlike the dryness of Blood Gulch. A common theme for him now was comparing _everything_ to that arid place.

Wash walks over and stands above him, says, “Tomorrow is leg day, too.”

“Fuck you.”

He really wonders how they got along trying to find the Director. But then there’s a smile, it’s a small one – it’s a rare one, even, on Wash’s pale face.

They set up a routine, something to make themselves feel normal – Wash, trying to be the Freelancer as always, but simultaneously a Blue now – and Tucker, his normal standing around and talking.

He’s not sure when Wash suddenly becomes a Blue in his mind. It could have been the evening they spent talking, same as the ones they had grown used to. Little details here and there came out, like, “We pranked York once. He had pink hair for days until it washed out.”

That was Tucker’s favourite.

But some days were full of anger. Because Church had left without goodbye, because Caboose was in such a funk Tucker _missed_ his inane comments, because things felt _wrong_ , or Wash insisted things were wrong. They came head to head, head to head, and Wash yelled about ‘being the best you can’ and it went on and on and Tucker _hated it_ and loved it, too, because he needed vitriol and he needed something to chew on. Otherwise he’d be suffocated by something he had to hold onto.

Wash’s words kept echoing and it was – it wasn’t pleasant. ‘Well, then, do me a favour and don’t die. Maybe break the streak.’

It wasn’t _fair_.

“This is just it, isn’t?” Tucker seethes in the ill-constructed kitchen, really only a table and chairs and a cupboard of MRE’s for the day. “You think by ordering me around like this, suddenly I’ll be able to _protect_ myself. Dude, I was on my own in a desert for _months_. I fucking was a diplomat for the Sangheili.”

Wash looks taken aback then – and Tucker remembers the expression he was fond of – and Tucker goes on, filling in the gaps, “I didn’t just have a kid or a sword. I’ve been fine so far and I was fine even with somebody like _Church_ for a leader, who was _killed_ by Caboose, who managed to lose his body so many damn times there was no point getting used to it!”

He watches Wash lean against the hard wall, notices for the first time his hair has grown out – a long fringe at the front, short at the back still. Wash runs his hands through it and looks away, and then Tucker notices then he has a slightly wobbly nose.

It’s a lot for a guy to take in, used to checking out girls.

Finally, after a long breath – it’s angry – Wash looks over to Tucker, now with his arms laying flat, no longer spread out imploringly. “Tucker, if something _happens_. Damn it if does, but if it _does_ , I can’t – I’m not – I’m not very good with – you know this…”

Tucker raises his jaw, waits for Wash to finish. He purses his lips. Counts a beat: one, two, three, four. Nothing.

“So that’s how it is,” Tucker says. He tilts his head.

“Tucker,” he begins, stops again. The addressed man starts to leave and he’s not halted. So he takes that in stride and vanishes to his room before Caboose hears anything, or wakes from his early slumber.

He wishes, in some small way, Wash had said something.

Then he comes to the communications tower, after the big blow-up and Freckles freak out – a volcano just erupting, it was going to happen eventually (not Freckles or Caboose as leader, that was _never_ supposed to happen) – and Wash has this way with words that seem to cool things down, even matters out. Repair things, make a clear path.

He wishes he was a dick, or maybe somebody he could hate. Tucker desperately wants to dislike him and he supposes Wash must feel the same, because being tied down to somebody so precarious was a dangerous thing. At least Grif and Simmons _were_ and _are_ tied; he and Wash came together by happenstance and the procured random fate of the universe. He didn’t believe in fate.

Maybe it was worse, with Wash standing in the doorframe of Tucker’s room hours after all _that._ His expression was a somewhat sorry one, or maybe it was just a neutral Wash expression. With the amber light in the corner, his face went from a pallid white dotted with freckles (like stars in a galaxy) to a luminescent colour of its own. Tucker himself liked the light, different from the blue he was used to, making his skin go from black as night to a more chocolate colour.

“I’m glad we sorted it all out.”

“I just want an extension on that hook-on-the-balls story, dude,” Tucker says, smiling slightly. “Sounds like a load of fun.”

“Well, it would have been, if it weren’t for the nuclear bomb about to go off,” Wash answers, entering the small room. He’s not wearing much, the same as Tucker, an unusually tropical evening for where they were.

“I’m sad I never got the chance to have such an interesting story.”

“I’ll find a nuke. So I can do that just for you.” He sits down carefully on the end of Tucker’s bed – more like a proper _bed_ , to the definition, since a long time – and unsuccessfully avoids looking at Tucker’s shoulders.

“You want to feel them?”

Wash clears his throat, then says, “They look like circuitry boards.”

“They did worship technology and shit. That’s definitely what Church took advantage of, as the floating ball thing.”

He has a good laugh. It’s a like a laugh that hasn’t made enough noise, a laugh that seems relaxed but needed exercising. Tucker turns around, conveys with a nod of his head: _go ahead_.

Tentatively, Wash reaches across and runs his hands across the lines and small circles, feels the indents in Tucker’s skin. He’s silent, and it’s a welcome silence – if words were spoken, it would have shattered the moment.

He hears and feels Wash disappear, but before he knows it they’re plunged into darkness. Then cold hands are back tracing, and Wash comments, “Not as gimmicky as I thought.”

“Cool, huh? I’ve not really _seen_ them, you know, it’s a bit hard to when it’s on my back. But Junior said it was cool, so I took his word for it.”

“You speak Sangheili?”

“A bit. Gotta communicate on like a, an equal level. And Junior knows both, so it made it easier.”

“I know a small amount. Apparently ‘shisno’ is a favourite of theirs.”

“Oh, yep.” Tucker grins to himself. Wash has moved on from lingering on the designs to running his hands slowly, carefully, over Tucker’s back. Then he scoots closer, rests his forehead on Tucker’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a while. Tucker wonders about the idea of ‘eternity’ and considers it stupid, or foolish, but he also sees how people could glorify it. He entertains it then, if that’s one fact, because Wash’s forehead is warm is a _human_ way, and his hands on Tucker’s hips are warm in a _human_ way. And he’s pretty sure – he’s pretty sure of a few things now – he felt very human then, and he thought humans, fatal flaws and all, may have been onto something with the idea of the ever expanding universe and all of time being held in one moment.

When it ends, though, and they sleep in the same bed because they are _human_ and they tire of things, Tucker makes sure to tuck it away somewhere so it’d be crystal clear like Simmons’ voice when he was nervous or the trademark laugh of Grif.

He’s learning sentimentality isn’t such a bad thing.

It doesn’t become common, Wash standing in the same spot and tracing the tattoos to lull himself to sleep, but one of the times he does come in he spills everything about Epsilon. All of it.

And Tucker – for the first time in a long time – is properly frightened, and properly wanting to protect Wash from the past. He holds onto Wash’s shoulders because they’re tender and they’re muscular, a tether of some sort, and he traces his collarbones reverently because the scars are like circuitry of a religious devotion, and he listens quietly about Allison and how Wash had to lie directly to the Director and how he had to rescue old friends only to come far too late and to a dead body.

The gravity of his words – _break the streak_ – is clear. Clear in the purest light of the purest kind, because this man has _seen_ things, he’s witnessed memories and pain Tucker had never suffered. He bows his head to Wash’s chest because he doesn’t have anything inspirational to say or anything important because he’s _sarcastic, quick-witted_ as is said, but he’s no wisdom teller or psychologist. So he uses what he _does_ know, and that’s touch. The simplest form of understanding.

He feels pressure on his head, for a moment – he almost takes it for a kiss – and they go to bed and sleep. Before they know it, days later, Felix has arrived and then Locus and then there’s an attack and Tucker takes the initiative because _he’ll break the streak_ and keep his end of the bargain, too, because he’ll be damned if he has to stand over a dead Wash.

There’s something worse about the uncertainty of life, though. That somewhere Wash could be dead, or he could be alive, or he could be barely breathing or forgetting Tucker’s name like a leaf in the wind.

“That’s war,” is said to him, and he thinks Felix is fucking _full_ of it, because he’s seen war and he’s seen aliens and swords and relics and people of distant planets and stars, had an AI for a best friend and then—

Nobody told him about _love_.

It’s not like he even thinks about it. He’s stewing in bed one evening, Caboose on the opposite bunk and Palomo and Cunningham and Rogers are in their circle on the other end of the tiny room, and his arms are crossed behind his head thinking about _drills_ and how he wishes Wash would be the one to help him.

The transition from man who wore Church’s armour to man who was a friend to man who traced his back to man who _was_ that anchor is startling. It’s a calamity of the galaxy. He immediately loathes it, denies it, tosses and turns for hours and realises he needs hands trailing down his back.

It’s not a happy melancholy, or a kind of sadness he can revel in – one he can milk for days, get time off. No, it’s a sadness that sits on his shoulders, sneaks into his chest, and it’s a terrible one because he can’t _voice_ it, can’t say to Caboose, “I’m in love with Wash,” and Palomo wouldn’t understand the _heaviness_ of this, the utter _certainty_ of Tucker.

That’s why he risks Cunningham and Rogers. Because there were losses you had to take. There were opportunities you _had to take._

Felix eyes him across the table, “You’re ruthless, Tucker. Going to storm the Federal Army bases yourself again?”

“Maybe.” Tucker shrugs his shoulders in return.

“You’ll die if you do it, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“And you know—”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” He returns to eating, then he remembers this particular MRE was a favourite of Wash’s – something feral like chicken and chemical shit – and that hurts because he never bothered to learn anybody’s favourite MRE.

“So, Tucker,” Grif greets him in the hallway one afternoon. “You and Palomo going well over the five day practice?”

“Do I have to tell you to shut up, too?”

“Jeez, I was just trying to be _nice_ ,” Grif says, sounding sorry. He shakes his head and walks off, and Tucker calls him a ‘cockbite’ because that always fixes things, and it does.

He can’t very well let the emotional take over him, anyway.

There seems to be some set idea in his mind that finding Wash will make things _fine, okay –_ that with him some wisdom will come, make the storm go away, find some calm between the civil war of Chorus. And he _wants_ that. He _wants_ a soothing hand on his shoulder and – and he needs to _say_ it. To properly, truly say it. Because it’s a sum of the equation, a totality of the journey from Sidewinder and watching Wash almost die, the beginning of their journey in Valhalla all the way to last ‘Freckles, shake!’ of Wash.

And it truly was idiotic, he wants to note, that last heroic act. Heroic acts get you _nowhere._ They get you killed or make you a martyr, and Tucker doesn’t _need_ a martyr. He needs a leader. A _partner_. It’s not some sexual-fuelled desire of his own. He knows this: and it’s unsettling. When he lived on such a shallow level for so long only to be raised or lowered or _whatever_ to some ethereal position with Wash that was _unique_ and it was that tie. That tie he was looking for.

He’ll be damned if he lets it be cut loose so quickly. That’s why he _says_ ‘Wash will know what to do,’ because Wash _will_ , he knows this deep, deep somewhere within him that Wash had found his way in and he knows he can’t sacrifice more people in the name of him and so they go, they go, they take the Warthogs and _go._

It’s their only option. It’s _his_ only option, for Agent Washington, for Wash, for _Wash._ He’s allowed the rhetoric of great love to enter into himself and he may as well embrace it.

“This is dumb, and it’s why I’m so on board with it,” Grif says, just before taking off again at the refuelling station. “It’s like, _what can we do to get ourselves killed_? It works out brilliantly, dude.”

“You know what you’ve done that’s dumb in the last few minutes? Got Simmons onto superpowers. He’s literally been talking about only being able to use Thor’s powers when you have a boner.”

“That’d be pretty cool, though,” Grif says, thoughtfully. “I mean, you get horny and suddenly you’re summoning the lightning of Asgard? Sounds pretty sweet to me.”

“You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“No, _this_ is unbelievable,” Grif corrects, hopping into the Warthog and motioning for Tucker to do the same in his. “Now hurry the fuck up.”

“Yes sir, asshole,” Tucker says.

“That’s Captain Grif to you.”

“Captain Tucker.”

Then they arrive and break their way through – it’s reminding him of their mission to find the warthogs for Agent Carolina – and traverse the snow and avoid the oncoming storm of the soldiers after their belongings.

This is another time where he begins to question the universe. Their _luck_. The odds. All of it. Millions of seconds and light years and stars that burnt and comets and history and the beginning and start of the millennia and spaceships and _everything._ All they were, iron and everything else that made humans _human._ Eternity.

He _sees_ him, properly, sees Wash starkly then. He’s imperfect and stilted and a soldier with a traumatised past, but he’s also Tucker’s and Tucker lays claim to all of it, faults and perfections and freckles because they’re his now. They will be. And he’s never, _never_ been more glad to be tied down by something, to have a security, to have another name beside his. He doesn’t often stay. But he will, he _will_ make this exception.

“Wash?”

“Tucker?”

Yeah. That’s – that’s enough. To hear the first thing from him – to hear it be his _name._ From start to finish to _now,_ the present moment that could be extrapolated and pulled and pushed and revisited again and again. Repeated. Is that what they call infinite?

Of course he trusts him. He wonders when that change happened, when he went from Freelancer to Blue to _I trust you_ and then more, maybe, because he’ll follow Agent Washington through the snow and watch the sun set and rise and hey, he’d let Wash babysit Junior. He trusts him _implicitly_ because Wash shared with him those moments, tiny ones that don’t make sense sometimes but are still beyond important and maybe he’s become far too emotional and craving of the sentimental, maybe he went too far. He has no care for it when he remembers the tattoos on his back and the stories of Epsilon and Allison and pink hair and lavender tips of South.

So when they have guns pointed at them, lasers to their head and he _hears_ the malicious intent in Locus’ tone, he’s only disappointed he never wrote this all out for Wash or had the opportunity to tell him. Tucker has never been this selfless, and he’s honestly amazed at himself.

That’s why he can point a gun at Locus. Because he’s _lost_ things, he’s _seen_ things, Locus is a sheep to _Tucker_ because _Tucker_ witnessed a talking bomb. It was called _Andy_ and Andy was as obnoxious as Tucker was, and he’s seen his friend – an AI, for fuck’s sake – shred himself to bits over a woman that never said goodbye except once and he had to _forget her_ and if there’s one thing Tucker’s never going to do it’s forget Wash, because Wash is _here to stay_.

Felix betrays them and he’s hurt by that, because once he trusted Wash he began to trust others, too, in quieter ways; Felix was a dick, no doubt, he was self-obsessed and vain, but he was _good._ And he went and turned on them and was with Locus all along.

Carolina appears because apparently one twist wasn’t enough – he imagines the personification of the universe laughing at him – and he’s never been more happy to see her, no longer the harbinger of regret and trailing around after people who should be dead, no, she’s _saved_ them. He trusts her now, too, because one oddball doesn’t mean he can’t admire her. Especially after all Wash had told him, had shared and said to never say again. Her and York. A tragic story that was destined from the start to never work.

Wash had said, “The people I know in the Project and all you simulation soldiers – all the _romances_ , if you could call it that, Tucker – none of them worked out. All of this happened because of _Allison_ , and you know that. York… Connie, none of it ended well.”

Tucker knows, though, that the sceptical Freelancers take the knowledge they have and judge from there – no, Tucker takes the possibilities and says, with good luck on his side, “No.”

Or a ‘Yeah’, where applicable.

So they get away and Dr. Grey treats the knife wound in Carolina’s knee and Tucker turns to Wash and says, “You think we got good luck?”

“I’m still constantly surprised.”

“I wonder if we can top it,” Tucker replies, standing next to him, watching the jabs between Carolina and the doctor. “You know, come up with something better. More out there, dude.”

“Probably.”

“So um,” Tucker begins, and for the first time he’s a little lost with words. “Have you seen Chorus’ night sky?”

“Yes.”

“Kinda looks a bit like forever, doesn’t it?”

“There’s less smog here, and so its sky is relatively less polluted. That explains its clarity.”

“In the months that have gone by,” Tucker says, looking away from the other Freelancer and to his Blue teammate, something, whatever he could call Wash now. “I’ve learnt a few things, Wash.”

“Yes?”

“A thing or two about time.”

Wash stays silent and so Tucker adds, “Bear with me.”

“I appreciate it,” Wash says, and Tucker knows there’s a smile underneath it and it’s that nice smile he’s fond of. A ‘we just escaped death’ smile, too.

“Time is dumb. Time is fucking stupid.” Tucker touches Wash’s shoulder, leans in a bit. “But, um, I don’t think time has ever passed so slowly before. It was pretty bad. So stick by, like, don’t break the streak. Or whatever.”

“You’re not a poet, are you?”

“Never said I was.”

“Well,” Wash eventually begins, nodding his head. “Time is sometimes strange like that.”

“I’m really close to saying ‘I love you,’, so don’t fucking push it. I’m trying not to get too mushy.”

There’s quiet between them, then, so Wash knocks him on the stomach and Tucker almost senses a wink – he’s not too sure – but he’s learning to be more sure of things these days, like how the days seemed to take forever when he worried about where Wash was or if he was dead or alive, and how the days _with_ him passed too quickly for his liking; how ‘Freckles, shake!’ seemed to echo in his head like a hymn, and it was no hymn of a glorious kind but rather a cackle of something to curse him.

So he supposes eternity isn’t much to talk about. He found an anchor, though, and that’s enough. It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> comments are my favourite thing. but no pressure ୧(﹒︠ᴗ﹒︡)୨ 
> 
> Tucker with Sangheili tattoos is my favourite concept in all of the RVB community - minor edit, it's punishandenslavesuckers that came up with that. thank you.


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